


Every Hit We Take

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Antagonism, Getting Together, M/M, Morse lives on the wrong side of the tracks but doesn't belong there, Morse never became a cop, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, Some bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: “Aw, c'mon Morse.” Jakes throws an arm around his shoulders like they're old pals, and squeezes until it hurts. “Face like yours, I bet the girls'll tell you anything you want to know.”“I'm not a snitch.”“Nah, you're a hoity toity ex-college boy no one likes. Easy out here, is it?” He trails his eyes up and down, making Morse uncomfortably aware of the rip in his trouser cuff, the healing bruise on his cheek. “On your own?”





	Every Hit We Take

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be angrier (hence the title from 'I Hate Everything About You'; Three Days Grace), than it ended up being. Morse and Jakes just kind of melted and wouldn't cooperate, and I've been sitting on this for long enough now, so I let them have it their way.
> 
> Thanks to guardianoffun for the help with where Joyce lives!

“Aw, c'mon Morse.” Jakes throws an arm around his shoulders like they're old pals, and squeezes until it hurts. “Face like yours, I bet the girls'll tell you anything you want to know.”

“I'm not a snitch.”

“Nah, you're a hoity toity ex-college boy no one likes. Easy out here, is it?” He trails his eyes up and down, making Morse uncomfortably aware of the rip in his trouser cuff, the healing bruise on his cheek. “On your own?”

“Oh, you're going to protect me are you?”

The arm slides away and Jakes shrugs, before rifling in his jacket for fags and a lighter. He blows smoke until it makes Morse's eyes water. “There's things I can do.”

“Forget it.”

He laughs. “That's not how this works, Morsey boy. You're not calling the shots. I am.”

“Right.”

He's suddenly close, in Morse's face. “Yeah. I am. Because if you don't-”

“If I don't what?”

He steps back, nonchalant again. “Perhaps there'd be questions asked. You know that stabbing down by the river last week? Funny, int it, how you were seen there roundabout the right time. Looking shifty. Stains on your clothes – dark, like maybe you'd spilled your coffee. Or spilled something else.” He takes a final drag on the cigarette, giving Morse a significant look as he drops it to grind under his heel.

“I was nowhere near there.”

“No? Who they gonna believe Morse?” He picks at the front of Morse's jacket, before brushing his fingers like the fabric has irritated them. “I'm an upstanding copper me. And you're a half-sloshed layabout.” He stares down at Morse. “I'm gonna be back same time tomorrow. And I expect you to have done some askin' around.”

–

Morse leans against the wall once Jakes has rounded the corner, letting his breath out in a rush. He's still tense, shoulders up by his ears, and makes a concerted effort to relax. There's something about Jakes that sets him on edge, something that would make him love to bury his knuckles in the man's nose.

Oh, not the bluster. Jakes thinks he's rough, and he's certainly not squeaky clean, but Morse handles worse on a daily basis. But he puts his back up. Makes him want to snap back, which only makes everything worse. For those few seconds though, God, those golden moments when words are coming out of his mouth and Jakes has shut up – it's like electricity in his veins. It's the only thing that feels good these days. But if he's seen with a copper...

He needs a drink.

He pokes his head back through the door to the pub, but there's a Matthews' brother – he can never remember which is which, and they don't like that – seated at the bar. So much for that plan. He shoves his hands in his pockets and ambles out of the alleyway instead, making sure to weave a little like a drunkard. He's had a few this evening, sure, but he finds people are more likely to leave him alone if he plays it up.

What he needs is a way out, he thinks, stumbling off the curb and across the road. A way to get Jakes off his back for good, 'cause having a boy in blue turn up – no matter how dark a shade – doesn't bode well for Morse's future health. He's aware he's not exactly a fighter, certainly not in the league of the Oxford underworld. And while he probably could get by on his brains, the only way to do that is to rise up the ranks and he's not exactly looking for a fast-track up the criminal career ladder.

No, he needs something more subtle than that. Preferably something that'll sort Jakes out and piss him off at the same time. He -

That's it.

–

Peter glances up, movement catching his eye. Something subconscious must have kicked in, made him notice, because that's _Morse_ of all people, walking out the station like he bloody works here. Peter looks both ways, and follows him; down the front steps like he's heading for a smoke, then round the corner.

He grabs him by the scruff of his jacket and swings him into a handy alleyway. “Got yourself another copper friend, Morse?”

Morse doesn’t look repentant or even surprised, just grins lazily. “Jealous?”

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes and shakes him, grip still tight. “What're you here for?” If Morse has come in with information – well, that something. He can probably still claim any leads as his own, even if his informant has blabbed the details to some other copper. And it saves him a trip across town to find the man.

That damn grin. “Told them something about you.”

“Me?” He's feels like he's losing the upper hand in this conversation, and Morse is a tricky one. He tries to rein it back in. “There ain't nothing you can tell them about me they'll give a damn about.”

“Happy with you beating up innocent people, are they?” Morse's eyes flash, and he wrenches himself from Peter's grip.

“Oh please.” He smirks and brushes out the crinkles in Morse's jacket; over-egging it until he can't possibly take it as anything but the jab it's meant as; prissy Morse, unable to deal with a bit of rough and tumble. “I've never laid a finger on you.”

“Well that's a lie,” Morse retorts, looking pointedly down at where Peter's hands still rest on fabric. He curls them into fists.

“Do you want me to start, is that it?” He's got a couple of inches on Morse, and makes sure to use them to his advantage, looming as much as he can. He doesn't really want to hit him. It's not his style, leave that to Thursday, or Strange – but also if he is gonna start it's not gonna be round the corner from the bloody nick. He can get a long way on intimidation though. He's got the right eyes; dark. “No one gives two hoots, Morse.”

“That's not what I told them anyway.”

“No?” He smirks, folding his arms but not stepping away. He's in Morse's space, bigger, stronger, the other man huddled against the wall but still spitting snark like a bloody college debater, still glaring daggers. “Do tell.”

“Told them you were a bit queer, Jakes.” His tone is low, soft and mocking. Peter freezes. “A poofter. That you like the boy-”

“Shut it.” He does push Morse now, shoulders back until his head knocks against the wall. It must not have been very hard though, because the smile is back and Peter steps away and runs a hand through his hair. That damn smile.

“Touched a nerve have I? Thought I had you pegged.”

“No!”

Morse folds his arms now, lounging against the wall so casual, like he's waiting for a bus. “All that talk of a face like mine-”

“You shut your damn mouth,” he snarls, aware he's over-reacting but it's out there now, too late to laugh it off. He's not. He's not like that, he's a ladies man. Just last week he took Joan Thursday out, and she's a right firecracker. He swallows, hard. “Shooting off with your lies. Is that any way to treat someone who's been looking out for you?”

“I don't need your help,” Morse spits.

“Yeah well you walked into a police station and told them all a copper was bent? Looking like that?” He shakes a hand at Morse's hair, his eyes, and forces out a laugh that sounds just a bit too hollow. He can't focus, can't look at Morse, checking the street to see if anyone saw. “Lucky they didn't throw you in a cell. They woulda done, if they'd believed you. Spurned lover or some such, just as bad as the one accused.” He steps close again. “The only reason-” he pokes a finger, hard, into Morse's chest until the knuckle goes white. Morse shifts. “-you're here, is they know it's nonsense.”

“I don't think it is.”

“Yeah, well your opinion don't count for much, does it?”

–

Jakes' finger will have left a bruise, Morse is pretty sure. He resists the urge to rub at the spot as Jakes turns away.

He thought he'd been looking. He thought he'd read Jakes, seen everything that he was, where he could push and where he could take things. He thought he was being clever – that his statement would start a rumour, one with no legs but that would cause a few uncomfortable tea breaks, maybe the odd off colour joke down the pub. And he'd be able to rile Jakes up even more when he next saw him with the face comment, throw his own words back at him, and watch him squirm to deflect. It was meant to be sport.

He hadn't expected such a wildness in those eyes. And suddenly all the shoulder shoves, and arms round necks, and picking at his clothes look less like a copper doing his best annoying older brother bully routine and resolve more into... something else.

If he'd known, he wouldn't have said. Course he wouldn't.

“Jakes...”

“Shut it.” He's turned away now, fiddling with his cuffs and the lie of his jacket as if he's putting armour to rights. Maybe that's what all the fancy suits and spiffy shoes are about.

“I'm sorry.”

Jakes wheels around, and he knows instantly it was the wrong thing to say, the wrong thing to do, to draw attention to how Jakes has reacted, to feel _sympathy._

“Fuck off Morse.” His voice is cold, but calm, his eyes shuttered and empty with no trace of wildness. The visor of the helmet firmly in place, Morse can't help but think. “You think you're smarter than everyone, don't you? Well you're not. You failed your degree and you can't stick a job and you. Don't. Know. Me.”

–

It's fine, he tells himself, as he stalks back to the office. He does a lap of the building, chain smoking his way through half a packet, and by the time he reaches the steps again his hands have stopped shaking. He smooths one over his hair, making sure it's all slicked back and in place.

Strange how such nonsense could rile him up, but it's just 'cause it's dangerous, that's all. Illegal. And not in the way that taking a bribe or decking a suspect is illegal, but the kind that'll get you stripped of rank and chucked in the clink.

No one'll actually believe Morse. That's what he just has to keep hold of. If they ask him about it all – which they probably won't, he's well-known for broken hearts and lipstick on his collar – he'll say he slept with his sister or something. Just a bloke out for revenge. There'll be sniggers for a few weeks but he can come down like bricks on any of the constables and the sergeants will get tired soon enough.

It's fine.

–

He doesn't see Jakes after that, and he tells himself it's good. It's what he wanted; no nosy copper hanging around and getting him in trouble. He manages to swing a bit of casual, labourer work – enough to keep a roof over his head for now – and it lends a sort of structure to his days.

He can't help peering into alleyways as he passes though, or the way his route from home to work seems to swing past the police station more often than necessary.

Maybe he just wants to know he's okay. That they haven't taken his words too seriously, and locked him up. Because it's like the sergeant has just disappeared.

He finds himself in pubs – not an unusual occurrence – but now he subconsciously sits next to people lighting up with their pint, like some kind of ex-smoker soaking up passive nicotine. He rolls his eyes at himself, but doesn't change seats. Just orders another drink, and stays, until whoever it is weaves their way home and he's left propping up the bar, too many beers down and pockets too light.

He fixes the rip in his trouser cuff one evening, running his fingers over the fabric and pricking himself with the needle he's scrounged. It's a bit of botch job, but in low light it works. He shaves daily in the pitted mirror above his sink. No bruises.

It's what he wanted, he tells himself. Off the radar. Safe.

–

“Jakes!”

Peter spins round, because that voice was awfully familiar, and – yes. It's Morse. Looking as surprised as Peter is that he's called out across the busy high street. He stops, somewhat bewildered, but makes no move to cross over to Morse; they're not friends. The other man looks both ways and darts across the road, dodging slow-moving traffic.

He looks well, Peter thinks, as Morse fidgets in front of him. When no words are forthcoming, he scowls and starts walking, looking back over his shoulder when Morse doesn't follow. “Are you coming?”

“Right, yeah.” They fall into step. “Did you...”

“Sort out your mess?” Peter huffs a humourless laugh, taking a drag of his cigarette. He watches Morse watch the smoke he releases, the way it trails up and away. “Yeah.” He lowers his voice, mindful of the shoppers – little old ladies, and young mothers, and even the odd kid dotted around. “Told 'em you're an overprotective little bitch who couldn't handle that I fucked your sister.”

Morse widens his eyes, just a shadow of a smile on his face. It's not the way he expected him to take that sentence. “Good cover. I've even got a sister.”

“Really?” Peter would have thought he was all alone in the world.

“'Course she lives in Lincolnshire, so you obviously like to travel.”

Peter can't help a real laugh at that. “I'm worldly wise, that's true.” He sighs, and offers Morse a cigarette. Morse's fingers twitch, but he declines. “Too good for one of my smokes, is that it?”

“Nah.”

Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Don't smoke,” he shrugs. “But it seemed like... a gesture. So I nearly took one. Until I realised I'd have to smoke it.”

Peter laughs again. “You're a funny one Morse.” They walk in silence, and he can't help but look out of the corner of his eye. It's been almost two months, and he hadn't realised how used he'd got to seeing the other man until he stopped seeking him out.“You seem... settled.” He means the healed face, the clothes that aren't quite as worn as they could be, although they could certainly still do with an iron. Maybe it's just the daylight. It makes him look healthier.

Morse hums. “Got myself a job, over on Botley lane.”

“Good.” He flicks away ash, for something to do with his fingers. He's weirdly glad they're walking; an outlet for nervous energy that's building from nowhere.

“Changed boozer too. All upstanding citizens, no one to snitch on. No more Matthews brothers.”

Peter looks at him askance. “Peter Matthews is inside.”

“Peter! That's it. I can only ever remember Cole.”

What's happened, that they're just walking and chatting? He remembers shoving Morse into a wall, remembers needling and pinching and wanting to hurt. “Peter sort of sticks with me.”

“Your first arrest or something?”

“No Morse, it's my name too.” He's not sure why he's let that slip, although it's not exactly privileged information.

“Peter?”

He shivers in the cold winter air. “Yeah.”

“Suits you.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“What?”

“I feel like you just compared me to a Matthews brother.”

“No! Not-” Morse looks frustrated, and Peter lets his stern expression go, cracking a smile. Morse sees, and jostles him with a shoulder. “Prick.”

They walk in silence until Peter huffs a sigh. “I know you wallow in the dregs of society Morse, but usually this is where someone would offer their name in return.”

“I'm not one for the intricacies of etiquette.”

Peter snorts. “Oh la di dah.”

Morse grins. “I don't use it, didn't even when I was up. They called me Pagan instead. On account of only having one name.” Peter looks sideways at the cherub-haired, wide-eyed man next to him and can't think of a less suitable name.

“I'll stick to Morse.”

“Thanks.” Their steps have brought them to the station, and Peter glances up at the building.

“Well,” he says awkwardly. He's got routines, set behaviours he can follow for most people. Criminals and scum, leave 'em with a shove and a biting word, put them in their place. Higher-ups, a handshake or a nod. Colleagues and friends, a shoulder clap. Ladies, whatever you can get away with, or a kiss on the cheek if you're trying to woo them. Morse defies categorisation, somehow stepped up and out of the first group, and he's not sure how to move from walking together to being apart.

Morse smiles, and makes it easy for him – with a little wave, he's gone.

–

He's probably had one pint too many, Morse thinks, as he pushes through the back door of the pub. But the other labourers had invited him out for drinks, and much as he'd rather have gone straight home, he knows having them onside will make his life easier. He just needs some air, a little break, then he can go back inside, finish his drink and head off.

The night is clear and cold; a hint of frost hanging in the air. He's glad he grabbed his jacket, and shoves his hands in the pockets. He breathes deeply, feeling the ice clear his lungs, and in turn his head. One minute more and he'll head back into the fug.

“Morse?”

A dark figure silhouetted in the end of the alleyway walks forward, but he doesn't need light to recognise the other man; voice and ever-present curl of cigarette smoke enough.

“Jakes.”

“Thought I told you my name.”

Morse shrugs, as Jakes comes to stand in front of him. “Force of habit.”

“Well break it.”

It's not worth it, and there's something about the night – the clear, calm stillness of it, or perhaps the way he's full up of social interaction – that makes him not want to argue. “Peter,” he capitulates, something warming his stomach when the other man smiles. Unfortunately it's not warming his arms, or his legs, and he shivers.

“Cold?”

“It is December.”

Jakes pushes closer, edging Morse back until he's against the wall and Jakes is mere centimetres away. Morse rolls his eyes. “I thought we were past this-”

“I just want to talk-”

“I don't know anything! And you know I wouldn't tell you if I did.”

“Not-” Jakes looks frustrated. “Not snitch stuff.” Morse pointedly looks down at their position, then back up to meet Jakes' eyes. “You were cold,” he adds defensively.

“This is your solution?!”

“I didn't think you'd take my jacket. Or a smoke. They warm you up you know.” Jakes takes another pull on his, held out to the side, and exhales the smoke straight up. The smell is so familiar, and Morse's eyes are drawn to long arch of Jakes' neck; the way they're close enough for him to see evening stubble coming through. The closeness is familiar too, in a way. The edge has gone, but he'd never really felt threatened anyway, and they're near enough that some of Jakes' warmth is seeping into the air around them. It makes him want to press closer, greedy for it.

Crowded in like this feels almost... safe. Which is ridiculous, he reminds himself.

“What did you want to talk about?”

–

He doesn't know, not really. Doesn't have a plan, just wants to shoot the breeze with Morse, and how pathetic is that? He's got plenty of friends, colleagues, any number of people he can chat to, head down the local and sink a few pints. But he'd happened to look to the left as he walked down the street, and there was Morse, and – well, no thought had been involved. He'd just turned.

He looks down at Morse, and before he knows it, he's leaning down too – just slightly, just so their lips brush; the lightest of kisses. It's the stupidest thing, because he's had thoughts, everyone does, but he never thought he'd act upon them. Even less with Morse. But in the end it just happened, like it was simple.

And then it happens again.

Morse's lips are warm, and soft, and this is the most reckless thing he's ever done. He's handed him the keys to his destruction, hasn't he? He'd be fired for this, thrown in jail, branded a deviant. They might not exactly be enemies, but they're not friends either, and he's given Morse this weapon against him, easy as you like, soft as a kiss, here – take this. How ironic, if he finally gets Morse to turn snitch and it's because of this, it's on him. Except... Morse has already tried, hadn't he? He'd wielded this blade and they _hadn't believed him_. The thought makes him bold, makes him press closer until there's no space between them at all, no cold air, just the heat of two bodies.

This isn't right, though, a tiny voice says. This is lovely. Pleasant. But Morse is scrappy, it shouldn't be pleasant, why isn't he fighting? He's not pushing Peter off, but he's not pushing for control either, he's not – he's not doing anything. Peter pulls away.

Morse's eyes are wide and wary. His mouth is slack, and it might be dark, but Peter knows what colour those lips are in the daylight now, and he wants to dive back in, deeper; he wants to take. Turn them from pink to kiss-bitten red. But he shouldn't, because Morse – the thought hitches, and he's not sure how it became so important to him, but the thought that Morse doesn't want this aches. He should say sorry. He hates if he's taken Morse's choice about this away. But he doesn't want to lie – and he shouldn't have jumped on Morse, he knows, but there's one small kernel deep inside that can't make himself feel sorry for knowing what it feels like. For having one kiss.

“Jakes?” Morse shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Peter?”

–

He's expecting Jakes to say football, or some other thing he knows nothing about but will now have to feign an interest in if it he wants to keep the other man here, close enough to reach out and touch, a barrier against the cold.

He's not expecting the soft press on lips on his, and his brain derails. This close he can smell Peter's hair product over the ever-present cigarette smoke, and a baseline that could be soap, or shaving cream, or maybe his washing powder. They meld together and he thinks – he likes this. Sitting downwind of a smoker won't be a good enough substitute now, not now he know what Jakes smells like close up.

Jakes shifts, pressing close until they're a solid line against each other, and the pressure – the contrast between warm body and cold, hard wall – lights something inside him. What is he doing? He's not even been kissing back -

Jakes pulls away.

“Jakes?” No, that's not right, especially not now. “Peter?”

“You...” Peter shakes his head and steps away, and the cold air rushing in is a shock. Morse finds his hands snapping out, curling in the lapels of Peter's coat before he can get too far away. “Morse...”

“Where are you going?”

Peter gapes, and despite Morse's iron grip on his coat, he fidgets. Hands flying to his pockets like he's going for another smoke, last one dropped in a puddle, then to his hair, then one rubbing across his mouth and chin like he's trying to erase the last minute. Morse tugs, and when he meets resistance tugs harder, until Peter is flush against him again.

“What are you doing?” Peter's voice is low, quiet, breathed into an ear.

“You surprised me,” he grumbles. He can feel a blush rising, blood and embarrassment battling the elements to bring heat to his cheeks, but he thinks if he doesn't get this out, it might be the end of all of it. He doesn't have a lot, he knows, in his life. To hold on to this – literally, fingers twined in heavy wool – is stupid. But it's something, and it's something he doesn’t _want_ to let go of. There are ways to wipe the smirk off Peter's face that don't require bloodied knuckles, or police station visits. Ways that make his own legs weak, and a hot curl of desire unfurl in his stomach. “Try again.”

Peter looks at him like he's just announced he's joining the police force. He raises one hand, and touches, gently, to the furrow in his brow. There's no place for it here, tenderness in a back alley whatever this is, but Peter lets his breath out in a rush. Until he doesn't need to be held in place, because he's coming closer of his own accord.

Yes.

This is better. He opens his mouth to let Peter in, and a slick tongue brushes against his own. He can feel himself flushing, feel Peter against him, feel his hands start to cramp where they grasp so tightly to Peter's coat. He hasn't felt like this in a long time. He unclenches his grip, now Peter's staying where he put him, and snakes them down instead, to reach around under layers and touch. Once he's there, though, the temptation is too great, and he sneaks further, laughing when Peter jumps at the cold.

–

Morse kissing back is even better, Peter thinks. His hands are freezing but it's a small price to pay for them on his skin. He's willing to let him still a little heat, he feels like he has enough to spare.

“Come back to mine,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

Why? Because the alternative is he's going to go further than he rightly should, in an alleyway, for any nosey git to see. Because he's got Morse fizzing in his veins now, and all those before times, when he wanted to needle and swipe at him – it's making more sense. It's like Lucy, back in year six, who wouldn't give him the time of day but had such soft red hair that he had to touch. When she'd pushed him back, he'd pushed her over, got a letter written home about it. It was one of the final straws, one of the things that led to Blenheim Vale.

His fingers rest on Morse's hips, and he grasps tighter, forcing the thought away.

“I don't know.”

He does know.

“Peter.” Strong hands hold him back, splayed across his ribcage, but this is nothing like Lucy. “Why?”

“I want you,” he admits, lips brushing the shell of Morse's ear. “But-”

A crash from the pub has them springing apart. Morse leaps away, facing the bins, running one hand through his hair. It looks like he's been caught in a gale – did he do that, or is it always that way ? - and Peter spins and leans on the wall instead, accidentally splashing his socks with frigid puddle water. He draws one foot up in a slouch cultivated to scream casual; it's a bit of an acting job, sometimes, the police, and he knows how to arrange himself to deflect suspicion. Just in time too – the door opens, and a bartender steps out with a crate of empty beer bottles. Peter lights a new cigarette, heart thumping loud in his ears, and nods at the man. He hopes his hands aren't shaking the flame.

“Gentlemen. Last orders soon.”

“Thanks,” Morse answers, gruff, but with a twitch of lips for politeness.

“You start any trouble back here I'm calling the cops.” The man looks from Morse to Peter, and Peter forces himself to hold his gaze. “I'm not cleaning up no blood 'cause you can't keep your disagreements civil.”

“Right,” Peter says. Anything to get him to go away. Could probably show his warrant card, but that might be a step too far.

“Right.” The man tips his bottles out into the bin in another crash, and sighs his way back into the pub.

“That's why,” Peter drawls, as soon as the door shuts behind him. “Interruptions.” He can't help a smirk as Morse's wide eyes meet his own, surprised he's not scurrying away with his tail between his legs. “What do you say?”

“To yours?”

“'S only a few streets over.” He can't quite believe how forward he's being, but he does know life has been grey and one-dimensional for a while, and somehow Morse has starred in all his recent bright spots. Besides, if they're in this, they both have things to lose, so he can probably count on him to keep schtum. Not to mention if they stay here much longer, he's in danger of losing a few toes to frostbite.

“Yeah.” Morse's eyes drag from his feet to his lips, following his movements as he takes another shaky drag on his cigarette. “All right then.”

The words are quiet but light a fire in belly, and no mistake. That slightly breathy tone. The promise, of what could come. He pictures Morse on his bed, and he's fully dressed in his mind's eye because he has no idea what the man looks like under his layers, but even so, it's enough to have him spinning on his heel. Enough delay. He wants to know. He's had enough of alleyways.

“Coming?” he asks, when he's reached the street and Morse hasn't moved.

“Yeah,” Morse echoes, and he catches up until they fall into step. “Lead the way, Peter."

**Author's Note:**

> I am SHOOK, but with this fic my yearly word count on AO3 clocks over 100,000. 
> 
> :O
> 
> Thanks Endeavour fandom :)


End file.
